Mark knew that expostulation and explanation were useless and unnecessary. He said not a word, but saw the girl safely brought to shore. And then, sad and heavy at heart, he turned and walked back toward the camp.
Bull Harris stayed, to reap the fruit of his labors. He held the half-fainting, half-hysterical girl in his arms and wiped her straying hair from her face and sought to calm her. He seemed to like his task, for when she was better he made no move to stop.
"Did he push you over?" inquired Bull, insinuatingly.
"No," cried the girl, with fierceness. "He did not. But I hate him!"
"You might say he did then!" the yearling whispered softly.
Mary Adams glanced at him with a sharp look.
"I might," she said, "if I chose. And I may. What's that to you?"
"To me!" cried Bull clinching the girl's hand in his until she cried out. "To me! I hate him! I could kill him!"
"You were rude to me once," she muttered.
"Yes," exclaimed Bull. "I was. You liked him, and I hated you for it."